


The Blessed Postal Service

by argentconflagration



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is a romance novel hero/ine (Good Omens), Aziraphale is extremely flowery and sappy, Epistolary, Love Letters, Other, POV Outsider, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), accidental miracles (Good Omens), but also a being beyond human comprehension, but none of it is actually innuendo, don't worry the OC is just there to provide that lovely outsider POV, love confession letters, some of this ends up sounding kinda euphemistic cause aziraphale is being flowery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 11:02:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20505908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argentconflagration/pseuds/argentconflagration
Summary: Carla Wright was not one of the many devoted postal workers who worked tirelessly to ensure the mail reached its destination in time, intact, and untampered with. Carla Wright was the kind of postal worker who read people's personal letters when she was bored. The front of today's most promising envelope said "Anthony J. Crowley" in beautiful calligraphy, while the return address was simply a bookshop.---Aziraphale pours his heart out.





	The Blessed Postal Service

It might be said that the postal service is the backbone of a nation (or, more precisely, its nervous system). Countless devoted civil servants work tirelessly through rain and hail, fog and sleet, and recently even death itself, to ensure the mail reaches its destination on time, intact, and untampered with. 

Carla Wright was not one of those people. Carla Wright was the kind of civil servant who read people's personal letters when she was bored. She knew the pen-under-the-flap trick, and a dozen others besides. She told herself she wasn't hurting anyone, that these were only strangers' letters and they'd never know. And truly, in the great reckoning of all human evil, it was a relatively harmless vice. Nobody's perfect.

The front of today's most promising envelope said "Anthony J. Crowley" in beautiful calligraphy, and below that was an address in Mayfair written so neatly it seemed typed, though it clearly wasn't. The return address was simply a bookshop. 

Carla unfolded the letter to see the same beautiful script written without the slightest flaw, as if the author was very practiced at handwriting, or had rewritten this letter many times until they could do it without error. There was a return address and inside address at the top, like a business letter, but entirely handwritten. 

The letter read:

_My dearest Crowley,_

_I know you'll think me hopelessly old-fashioned for this, but I felt I had to do this properly. I know if I tried to say these things to your face I'd seize up and be unable to find the words, and you deserve to know beyond all doubt that this is how I truly feel. Surely you can indulge me, just this once. _

_I love you. I know you know this, but I think I ought to say it plainly, when I have done everything but say it plainly for centuries. I didn't always realize it myself, but nothing makes sense without my love for you. I have loved you for so long, burning so bright and hot that I feared it would consume the both of us. _

_Please forgive the times I've hurt you, when I've let the fear overtake me. I have been so afraid, and I've said things that are unforgivable. I wanted to protect you, and I thought that if I were good enough, I could keep both of us safe. I had a hope, a foolish one, that God would see what I see: that you're more deserving of Her love and grace than most angels. I wished for Her to welcome you back in, and that nothing would have to be complicated. But I need you to know it was never because I despise any part of you. I don't want the kind of angel who would fit into Heaven, I want you. Forgive me, all the same._

_When you look at me, I'm worth something. When I look at you, I'm home. You understand me, you see me, you know me. There's a piece of me that will always be lonely as long as we're apart. You told me once— I don't know if you remember, you were very drunk at the time— that you ruin everything you touch. That lie was painful to hear. Every time you've touched me, I've felt more loved and more free than I ever did in millennia spent in Heaven. If you've ruined me, it's only that you've ruined me for anyone else but you. _

_My love, we've been through fire. We have passed the test, and now I want nothing more than to take you in my arms and show you how much I love you, in all the ways I've wanted to and a thousand other ways I've not yet thought of. You've waited so long for me, and I'm so grateful. I want to tell you I love you in every tongue that's ever been spoken. I want to tell Heaven and Hell and every kingdom of the Earth how much I love you, until you never again have a reason to doubt. _

_Everything I was afraid of, we've survived, together. We're at the end of our journey, and, I hope, the beginning of a new one. My heart is in your hands. All my faith is in you, and so is my redemption. _

_Yours, eternally,_

And here was written a symbol that Carla immediately knew wasn't from any language on Earth. Underneath was written, "Aziraphale". 

Carla's eyes watered as she folded the letter, and the tears started to fall as she slipped it back into its envelope. She wasn't sad. She was experiencing a feeling of love so tangible that her only possible response was to weep. She was _blessed._

Before she arrived home that day, she knocked on her neighbor's door and offered to walk their dog. Then she mowed their lawn, swept their house, and made them a boxed lunch for the next day with sandwiches cut into little flowers. When she finally got home, she called up her best friend, and told her how much she loved her.

The next day, she rang the doorbell at that address in Mayfair, the envelope in her right hand and a bouquet of fresh roses in her left. The person who answered the door was in his pajamas, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. He mumbled something that was probably, "What's all this about?", given the circumstances. 

"Letter for you, sir!" said Carla, with the kind of warm smile you'd give an old friend you hadn't seen in a while.

"Thanks," he mumbled, and took the items. He gave her a confused wave before retreating back inside. 

Carla headed back to her truck, humming an old love song that she'd never heard before.

Who's to say what happened after that? If a demon sat in bed and cried from the love that overwhelmed him, let us leave that to his privacy. If he phoned an angel a few hours later, and words were exchanged that they'd wanted to say for millennia, we may never know what those words were. 

After all, the confidentiality of the post is a sacred thing.

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me almost completely finished at 5am and it's already one of my favorite things I've ever written. I'm starting to think the reason I write porn is just for an excuse to be this sappy.
> 
> Prompt: wooing/courting. 
> 
> Find me at [argentconflagration](https://argentconflagration.tumblr.com) or [6000yearsofsexualtension](https://6000yearsofsexualtension.tumblr.com) on tumblr!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Blessed Postal Service by argentconflagration](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22398325) by [chaoticlivi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticlivi/pseuds/chaoticlivi)


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